An echoing cheer rang out through the barren hall. Stryker leaned back in his cushioned throne as he watched the Apollites and Daimons congratulate each other on their most recent success-the capture of Ravyn Kontis. The darkened hall was lit only by candles as they poured Apollite blood-the only thing that could sustain their cursed bodies-from pitchers and spilled it all over themselves.
Like the other Spathis gathered here, Stryker envisioned a better world. A world where his people weren't condemned to die at the tender age of twenty-seven. A world where they could all walk in the daylight that he'd taken for granted as a child.
And all because his father had knocked up a whore and then gotten pissed when the Apollites had killed her off. Apollo had cursed them all... even Stryker, who had been the ancient god's most beloved son.
But that was eleven thousand years ago. Ancient, ancient history.
Stryker was the present and the Daimons before him were the future. If everything went as planned, they would one day soon reclaim the human realm that had been taken from them. Personally, he'd have rather started with another city, but when the human official had come to him with a plan for the humans to help rid Seattle of Dark-Hunters it had been a perfect opportunity to start aligning the race of man with the Apollites and Daimons. Little did the humans know that once the Dark-Hunters were cleared, there would be no one to save their souls. It would be open season on all mankind.
"How many Dark-Hunters are left in Seattle?" he asked his second in command.
Like the other Daimons who were present, Trates was tall and lean, with golden blond hair and dark brown eyes-the epitome of youthful beauty. He drew his brows together as he thought for a second. "Once Kontis is dead, we're down to seven."
Stryker curled his lips. "Then we're celebrating too soon."
Silence rang out at his words.
"How so?"
Stryker turned his head to see his younger half-sister approach his carved throne with a bold, determined stride. Unlike the Spathi Daimons who made this place home, she bore no fear of him. Dressed in a black leather catsuit that laced down the front and hugged her lithe, muscular body, she stepped up on the dais to lean against the arm of his chair. Her dark eyes were completely devoid of emotions as she arrogantly cocked a questioning brow.
"He's not dead yet." He spoke each word slowly, with careful enunciation. "I've learned when dealing with these bastards to take nothing for granted."
She gave a sarcastic half laugh before she pulled his cell phone off his belt and dialed it.
In theory, the phone shouldn't work in this nether realm. But never ones to let the humans get the better of them, his Spathis had found a preternatural wave that could carry the signal out of Kalosis and up into the human world. It was a dubious trick that served them well.
Satara gave Stryker a bored look as he heard the good Apollite vet in Seattle answer the phone. "Is he dead yet?" she asked, mocking Stryker's earlier tone.
He could only hear the faint muttering of the Apollite on the other end.
Satara gave an evil laugh. "Ooo," she said, wrinkling her nose in a seductive manner. "You're so nasty, gelding him before he dies. I like that."
Stryker reached up and grabbed the phone from her. "You've done what?"
Even over the static of the line, he heard the Apollite sweating. "I... um... I'm planning to neuter him, my lord."
Stryker saw red at that. "Don't you dare."
"Why not?" Satara asked in an offended tone.
Stryker glared at her as he answered for both her benefit and that of the vet on the other end. "For one thing, I don't want Kontis out of that cage until after he's dead-he's too dangerous for that-and for another, I won't stand by and see a worthy opponent emasculated. He's earned the right to die with some dignity."
Satara scoffed. "Some dignity. His head's going to explode. Where's the dignity in having your brains splattered all over a cat box because you wanted to look up some human whore's dress? If he'd truly been worthy, we'd have never caught him so easily."
Stryker tightened his grip on the phone. "Trickery isn't worthy of our species."
"Oh, get out of the Stone Age, Strykerius. There's no such thing as noble duels anymore. This is a world where the better sneak wins."
Perhaps, but he remembered a time and place where things didn't work quite that way and after eleven thousand years he was too old to change his ways. "Even so, he is a cousin to us and-"
She sneered at him. "The Were-Hunters turned their backs on the Apollites and Daimons a long time ago. They don't consider you family anymore."
"Some do."
"Kontis doesn't," she shot back. "If he did, he'd have never been able to sell his soul to the Dark-Hunters and join their ranks. For hundreds of years he's hunted and killed your kind. I say geld the bastard and wear his shriveled balls as a trophy. "
Trates cringed at her words, as did several other males in the room, some of whom instinctively cupped themselves.